


The Lord of the Hats

by replicasex



Series: Hat AUs [10]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Humor, M/M, The Hobbit/The Lord of the Rings Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 05:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/replicasex/pseuds/replicasex
Summary: An elf with gray hair and a six foot five dwarf on an epic adventure to save Middle Earth.





	The Lord of the Hats

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I should classify this as crack. You decide.

“You’re no dwarf,” Ross said, glaring up at the heavily armed man in front of him. “You’re taller than I am!”

“I’m a dwarf,” Smith said. “I have dwarf parents. I was born in a mine!”

“You’re six foot five at the shortest!” Ross said. He paused to soothe his agitated horse, lilting Elvish words that calmed the beast immediately. The Fellowship had camped for the night and Ross was at his usual work with the animals.

“Height doesn’t have anything to do with being a dwarf! And you, what kind of an Elf are you supposed to be? Your hair’s gone gray!” Smith the dwarf yelled.

Ross glared up at him and had to pause for the legendary composure of his people.

“Just because your mortal senses mistake the light of the Eldar as _gray hair_ doesn’t mean I’m not –.” Ross started.

“Your ears aren’t even pointy!” Smith said, waving his long arms around. His armor clanged and clinked together.

Ross’ cheeks became slightly red, but no more than slightly.

“I have Elven parents,” Ross repeated in a lofty tone. “I was born in fair Lórien, among the Galadhrim.”

Smith gritted his teeth and held up his hands in truce.

“All right, all right. Point’s taken.” Smith said. He unrolled his bedding and prepared himself for sleep.

“I swear,” Said the little Hobbit Trott from across the campfire. “If you two don’t keep your lover’s quarrel quiet while I’m trying to sleep I’ll be flinging myself into the Cracks of Doom right after the Ring.”

The pair looked at each other quizzically. Ross sighed and eased himself onto the grass beside Smith as if it were a bed.

“The Shire-folk are strange,” Ross said softly. “Given to imaginings far outside their ken.”

“But shrewd and keen eyed, for all their strangeness.” Smith said. With a loud clang, he shifted himself closer to the Elf. “I did not say _gray_ to insult. I have heard that in Lothlórien the trees are as pillars of silver. Is it not so?”

“Yes, it is so. The fair mallorn’s bark has a pale gray hue, that might, to the greedy eyes of dwarves, seem as silver.” Ross said, watching the stars.

“Is Lórien not the fairest land of them all?” Smith asked, low enough to cause a shiver in a lesser being.

“East of the Sea, perhaps.” Ross corrected.

“And so how can _gray_ be so awful, if it is part of the fairest land East of the Sea?” Smith shuffled closer, still amazingly loud in the quiet of the camp. “Your coloring seemed to my mind more like that of _mithril_ , the silver that my forefathers mined in the deep places of the world.”

Ross’ eyes turned away from the stars and towards the six foot son of Durin.

“Why are you saying this?” Ross asked. Seldom had any man, mortal or otherwise, complimented him so. To Ross’ astonishment, Smith unfastened his gauntlet and laid it gently between them. Smith’s bare hand touched his own pale, beardless face.

“Because you are comely to my eyes,” Smith said. “And a fierce foe of the Shadow in the East. And because I desire you.”

Ross felt his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He had little experience with such things, the long defeat of his people sapping them of any interest for such passion. Ross caressed Smith’s hand with his own. He could see in Smith’s eyes how that inflamed him. He gently pulled Smith’s hand from his face.

“This way leads only to tragedy.” Ross said. For in his mind was the tale of Beren and Lúthien, whose story promised woe to those Elves who loved mortal kind.

“it is no tragedy to take comfort in one another at the end of all things,” Smith said, short of breath. “Like as not, we will not survive this quest.”

“Do you despair so?” Ross asked.

“The best we must hope for is to accomplish our task, which is fraught with so many dangers I cannot see how we could live beyond it.” Smith said. “But I would despair only of our failing the quest.”

“Then we are the both of us committed to a certain end. I can see no beauty in a flower that blooms but once.” Ross said.

“Pah! If it cannot last a thousand years your people cannot value it!” Smith hissed.

He began to unfasten and remove his greaves, and then to untie his small clothes.

“Here!” Smith said in a hoarse whisper. “This flower has bloomed nightly, every night since my eyes beheld your fair form, gray and all!”

Ross could not believe what he was seeing. Here was Smith, a man sized dwarf so pigheaded that he slept in his own armor, suddenly stripped to the very root of him. He felt his hands move of their own volition, slowly working their way up Smith’s thighs, to wonder at the heat there. For the stars were dim and distant, and Ross was so cold.

“Take hold,” Smith begged, quivering. “Please.”

*

Afterwards, they watched the stars together. Each warming the other completely.


End file.
